


*The Vending Machine Incident

by WhimsicalEthnographies



Series: Up Came the Sun [22]
Category: Iron Man (Movies), Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Clint Barton Is a Good Bro, Gen, Noodle Incidents, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker is a Mess, The Avengers can be shits, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-14
Updated: 2019-04-14
Packaged: 2020-01-13 09:19:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,283
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18466027
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhimsicalEthnographies/pseuds/WhimsicalEthnographies
Summary: *Demon Dolls and Iron Dads“Mr. Stark, remember when I got my hand stuck in that vending machine in the compound lobby?”Tony manages a chuckle, of course he remembers. Leave it to Peter to get his hand stuck in a novelty vending machine--Clint’s idea--that he didn’t want to ruin by just ripping his hand out. “Yes, I do remember. And I remember your hand would have come right out if you’d just let go of the bottle.”





	*The Vending Machine Incident

**Author's Note:**

> Peter Parker's very own Noodle Incident, even though he doesn't know what a "Noodle Incident" is.
> 
> Originally mentioned in [Demon Dolls and Iron Dads](https://archiveofourown.org/works/17569388)
> 
> I decided to flesh it out, just to get something posted before 4/25.

“Oh my Christ,” Mr. Barton chuckles with glee and rolls on his heels. “Is the spider trapped in a spout?”

Peter feels his face flush and he drops his head. His hand is starting to hurt, squished where it is in the chute of the vending machine. “Itgotstuck,” he mumbles at his shoes.

“I’m sorry, Spider-man?” Mr. Barton makes a show of adjusting one of his miniscule hearing aids. “I didn’t quite catch that…”

“IT GOT STUCK,” Peter looks up and glares at him, but apparently he’s not very menacing, because Mr. Barton just laughs again.

“I can see that. Looks like you got stuck too.”

“I wanted my Coke. But this vending machine is apparently a piece of shit.”

“Hey, that machine cost me two grand. Don’t blame the machine.”

“I tried to shake it out,” Peter gingerly shifts to sit cross-legged on the floor, rather than subject his knees to the hard marble tiles any longer. “But it’s really stuck.”

“So you reached inside! Makes sense,” Mr. Barton nods to himself. Peter can’t tell if he’s being serious or making fun of him. “Did you at least reach it?”

“Yeah, but now I’m stuck.”

“Mmmhmm, mmmhmm,” Mr. Barton nods seriously, obviously trying to keep from bursting into laughter _again_ at Peter’s predicament. 

“Can you just help me please? I don’t want anyone else to see this,” Peter’s ankle cracks loudly. He’d landed on it awkwardly while patrolling the night before.

“Why didn’t you page Stark? He’s always getting you out of ridiculous shit,” but Mr. Barton comes over to the vending machine, leaning over Peter to try and peer down the glass face. “Did you at least go for a good flavor?”

“Black Cherry Vanilla,” Peter mumbles. The marble floor is already starting to hurt his butt bones.

“Excellent choice,” Mr. Barton nods again and steps back. “And the closest place to the city to get it is--”

“A Target on Long Island,” Peter finishes for him. Mr. Stark keeps a stock at the Tower, but Peter has been too chicken-shit to ask for it at the Compound--he doesn’t want to give anybody any more ammunition about his _childish_ tastes--and he’s lucky if he can make it out to the island with May once a year. “This was my chance, Mr. Barton. And your vending machine _betrayed_ me.”

“Ah, a machine after my own heart,” Mr. Barton crouches down to try and peer up through the door, but Peter is stuck good and can’t move to give him room. “Well, I think we’re gonna have to call Stark if we want to not break this thing.”

“Do we have to? Can’t we just lie and say something happened and ask Mr. Stark to replace it?”

“Well, that’s what I would do, but you’re a child and lying to your dad is bad,” he stands up and pulls something out of his pocket.

“He’s not act-ctually my dad, Mr. Barton,” Peter picks at the sole of his Converse while his cheeks burn bright red. 

“Tell him that. Now be quiet while I call your father.”

“Why don’t you have FRIDAY call?” Peter tries to turn to look up at him but he really can’t move. His hand is starting to hurt.

“You want any of the super soldiers with super soldier hearing to hear anything about this? No, didn’t think so. Now be--Stark!”

Peter can hear Mr. Stark grumble over the phone and demand to know why Mr. Barton is calling his _goddamn phone_ like a _goddamn pleb._

“Well, yeah, your kid’s got himself, heh, _stuck_ in a pretty hilarious situation--no, no, he’s fine. Except his pride….yeah, we’re down in the lobby….no, no one else is here...yeah, Spider-man was bested by a vending machine...oh, come off it Stark, you let ‘Tasha put those ugly flowers in here. I wanted a Coke machine...yeah, ok.” Mr. Barton shoves his phone back into his pocket. “He’ll be down in twenty-minutes.”

Peter groans and drops his head against the glass of the vending machine. “Are you gonna leave me here?”

“Nah, kid. Not even I’m not mean. But I am gonna laugh at you.”

******

Twenty-seven minutes later, Mr. Stark still isn’t down in the lobby, but Mr. Barton is, dutifully standing guard like he promised, even if he does stop his pacing to laugh a few times.

“Yeah,” he steps in front of Peter--whose entire arm is _really_ starting to hurt now, tingling and throbbing like every one of the nerves in his forearm is being compressed--and calls out to two medical personnel who are making their way over to the FRIDAY’s security scanner. “Nothing to see here...keep walking! Vending machine is out of order!”

“Mr. Barton, what are you doing?”

“Crowd control,” he looks down at Peter and smirks.

“You’re drawing more attention to me.”

“Nah,” Mr. Barton waves him off, but the amused look in his eyes says he very much knows he’s making a bigger scene. “Oh, there’s dad now!”

The private elevator dings and Peter twists his head as far as he can to see Mr. Stark stride out of the elevator, finally. He’s dressed in business attire from the waist up but old, ragged jeans underneath the crisp shirt, tie, and vest, and Peter knows he must have been in on some video calls.

“What’s this then?” Mr. Stark looks down on him when he reaches the vending machine, one eyebrow raised. Peter shrinks in on himself; he looks annoyed.

“Kid tried to unstick a bottle of Coke and got stuck,” Mr. Barton laughs.

“And you couldn’t unstick him?”

“And ruin my machine? Not a chance.”

“Peter,” Mr. Stark looks back at him, and Peter looks up to see he looks not so much annoyed as he looks like he’s trying to keep himself from bursting into laughter. “You know you could have just asked for the dollar-seventy-five.”

“I wanted my Coke.”

“There’s Coke upstairs, bud.”

“Not Black Cherry Vanilla,” Peter drops his head again. Mr. Stark has a very special way of making him feel like a child, even if he doesn’t mean to, which is exactly what he wanted to avoid.

“Alright,” Mr. Stark sighs and drops down to the floor beside him, grunting as his knee cracks. 

“Jesus, Tony, you ever gonna get that thing fixed?”

“Shut it, Barton, if you don’t want _me_ ruining your machine,” he peers down the front of the glass, then drops lower to try and look up through the door. “Ok, kid, if you could just--” he takes ahold of Peter’s elbow and shoulder to shift up, but wrenching pain shoots up his arm.

“Ah! NO! No-Mr. Stark, it--”

“Okay, okay,” Mr. Stark immediately lets go and sits back up straight, rubbing his shoulder as Peter gasps in relief. He turns back up to Mr. Barton. “FRI?”

“Yes, Boss?”

“Have the bot--” Mr. Stark keeps DUM-E, U, and Butterfingers in the Tower, and he hasn’t named the bots in his lab at the Compound yet “--bring the Level Two box to the lab door. Give Clint access when he gets there.”

“Sure thing, Boss.”

“Thanks, babe. Barton, you step more than two feet into that lab and I’ll rip this thing apart and smash every bottle through your most preferred vent-route.”

Mr. Barton raises both hands and does what Peter considers a pretty accurate Neil DeGrasse Tyson impersonation, but then he smiles gently. “Be back in five, Pete.” He turns on his heel. “I’ll be on time!”

“Yeah, just move,” Mr. Stark grumbles and shifts to sit properly on the floor beside Peter as the elevator doors ding closed. “You know, I guess at least it’s not a crazy guy in a rhino costume. You see these grays? They’re all you, kiddo.”

“Sorry, Mr. Stark.”

“Could be worse,” Mr. Stark sighs. “But why’d you call Barton?”

“Because I know you were probably busy until later,” Peter shrugs as best he can, confined as he is. It hurts his arm and he winces. “And one time I found him passed out in a closed subway entrance, so I figured he wouldn’t rat me out.”

“You did? Jesus. That’s worse than a dumpster. But good secret-keeping.”

“I thought maybe it’d come in handy, one day,” Peter looks up at the vending machine that betrayed him. “Just thought it’d be more serious than this.”

“You could just break it, Pete. Just punch your way through.”

“I’m not gonna break his machine, Mr. Stark.”

“You are too good, bud,” Mr. Stark ruffles his hair. “That thing’d be toast if this were me. Of course, I wouldn’t stick my hand up there, so it’d just be toast for refusing to give me my Coke.”

“Spider-man doesn’t do that, Mr. Stark.”

“You know, your horse is pretty high, you smug little brat,” Mr. Stark chuckles. “Of course, though, I’m gonna have to tell your aunt.”

“What? Why?”

“Because this is hilarious--ah!” The elevator dings open and Clint rushes over, carrying a metal box. “Record time, Barton. You’re never this fast when it’s just one of us.”

“Well, I have a soft spot for kids. And my vending machine,” he winks at Peter and sets the tool box down on the floor in front of them. “How can I assist?”

“Just be ready to say goodbye to this thing if you need to,” Mr. Stark flips open the lid and selects a screwdriver from the a magnetic plate on the inside. “Let me just get this thing off, here, sit forward as much as you can, kid.”

Peter tries to watch as Mr. Stark makes quick work of the swinging door of the chute, but he can’t turn around, so he’s stuck watching Mr. Barton try not to laugh. Mr. Stark has the screws undone and the door off in three minutes, gently angling it and wiggling it out from between the machine and Peter.

“Here,” he hands the heavy piece of plastic to Mr. Barton. A rush of pins and needles shoots up Peter’s arm now that several of his nerves aren’t being compressed. “Should be able to see up there now. Sit still, Peter.” 

“Can you see anything?” Peter grimaces as his arm burns and Mr. Stark flattens himself against the floor to try and peer up.

“Yeah, I can see that someone needs to clean under this thing. Ugh,” he cranes his neck, shoulder digging into Peter’s back as he tries to look up into the chute for Peter’s hand. “Now let me see...Peter.”

“What?”

Mr. Stark’s hand dramatically drops to the floor, the screwdriver clanking against the marble. “Are you holding onto the bottle?” He says through gritted teeth.

“What?” 

Mr. Barton’s eyes practically bug out of his head and he sputters. 

Mr. Stark pushes himself back up to sitting. “Let go of the bottle, Peter.”

“Well--”

“Peter!” Mr. Stark whips his arm around and digs the screwdriver into Peter’s side, hard. He yelps and jumps, jerking the vending machine as the bottle slips from his grip, landing with a clunk in the receptacle. 

“OH MY FUCKING CHRIST!” Mr. Barton practically falls over laughing as Mr. Stark grabs ahold of Peter’s elbow and guides his arm down and out of the vending machine. Peter winces as it’s practically thrown in front of him; there are red splotches and ridges pressed all up and down the underside of his forearm.

“Oh my god,” Mr. Stark explodes with laughter behind him, doubling over and pressing his forehead into Peter’s shoulder while he heaves. “He was holding the bottle, Clint!”

“I know! This kid’s amazing, Stark,” Mr. Barton wipes tears from his eyes. “Where’d you find him again?”

“A gift from the gods!” Mr. Stark gasps between laughs. Peter rubs his wrist as his entire body starts to burn in shame. He must be bright red; he didn’t even think about letting the bottle go. “Okay, okay--” Mr. Stark tries to school himself. “Okay,” he takes a deep breath, and Peter looks down at his poor arm in his lap as he feels a quick pressure against the back of his head. “Okay, whew, you are a piece of work, kid. Don’t ever change.” Mr. Stark rubs his shoulders, then uses him as leverage to push himself off the floor.

“Thanks, kid, I needed this laugh” Mr. Barton reaches out to ruffle his hair but Peter ducks and jerks away from him, trying to keep from crying with embarrassment. “Thanks for not breaking my machine, I guess!”

“Ok, come on bud,” Mr. Stark says through more chuckles, bending over to grab his shoulders. “Let’s get this arm looked at, just in case. FRI?”

“Yes, Boss?”

“Please tell me this is all recorded.”

“As always, Boss.”

“Perfect,” Mr. Stark hauls Peter to his feet, who wants nothing more than to crawl into one of the air vents in the ceiling and live there forever. Although after this, he doubts Mr. Barton will ever let him up there again. 

********

“Pete,” the door to his room flies open without even a knock. “We’re ordering food. What do you want?”

“I want a black hole to swallow my entire existence. Wipe my soul from this realm,” he doesn’t turn to face the door.

“I don’t think the pizza joint carries that, so pick something else, bud.”

“I’m not hungry,” he is, Peter is incredible hungry, and thirsty--he never got his Coke--but he’s unwilling to leave his room. He’s already heard Mr. Barton tell the story three times in the common area since Dr. Banner gave his arm the all clear and he ran off to sulk.

Mr. Stark sighs, and steps fully into the room. “Yes, you are,” the door clicks quietly behind him. “I can practically hear your stomach rumbling.”

“I’m fine.”

“Did I ever tell you about the time I got so drunk at my birthday party I peed in the suit?” There are footsteps across the room, and then the bed dips as Mr. Stark sits down. “Wait, yeah, I’m pretty sure someone told you about that. But there’s a whole treasure trove of dumb shit I’ve done that a five-year-old would have known how to avoid. A lot of which you won’t ever know about until you’re twenty-one in real years.”

“Mr. Stark…”

“Fuck, I don’t even know my social security number. I’d be living in the streets if it weren’t for Pepper.”

“That’s--” Peter rolls over and frowns up at him. “--that’s not funny, Mr. Stark. That’s actually pretty sad. I’ve known my social security number since I was ten.”

“Exactly,” Mr. Stark points at him and nods. “And every single of one of those animals is about a thousand times less capable than I am...except maybe ‘Tasha.”

“That makes it worse, Mr. Stark--”

“I mean, look at Clint. He’s got a whole-ass family, why the hell is he here? And I’d put money on the fact that in three days we’re gonna find him sleeping in a dumpster in Harlem.”

“Well, nobody laughs at him,” Peter huffs and crossed his arms. “Because that’s just Mr. Barton.”

“Oh, we laugh at him. But Clint’s pretty self-aware, and he turns down his hearing aids and uses it as an excuse to not answer anything.”

“I can’t do that, Mr. Stark. And I’m not,” Peter sighs and feels tears prick the corners of his eyes. “I’m trying to act like I belong here, I know everyone still looks at me like I’m a kid. Like I’m just the mascot.” 

“Pete,” Mr. Stark shifts down the bed and reaches to squeeze his knee. Peter has to fight the urge to jerk away. “You are still a kid...and you’re a kid with strength who only the Hulk can really go up against, who could have easily ripped his arm out of that dumb machine but didn’t because you’d feel bad if you broke something that belongs to someone else. You’re only the _mascot_ because everyone knows you’re still too young to be the team leader.”

“They’re still gonna laugh.”

“Of course they are! I laughed! It was funny.”

“Gee, thanks, Mr. Stark,” Peter starts to roll back over but Mr. Stark stops him with a gentle hand on his forearm. 

“Peter, I’m know you’re a sensitive little shit and your heart breaks nearly every goddamn day, but trust me, they aren’t gonna think anything less of you. You do dumb shit all the time and I still trust you to not really fuck anything up.”

“Mr. Wilson is gonna be awful.”

“I can’t believe I’m gonna defend Wilson, but he teases you because he likes you.”

“It doesn’t feel like it.”

“Then I’ll say something,” Mr. Stark squeezes his arm. “And I’ll say it’s bothering _me_ , because it does if it really bothers you.”

“You don’t have to, Mr. St--”

“And then if he says something, you look him straight in the eyes and say you could have ripped it open, but didn’t want to because unlike his ridiculous wings you’ve destroyed once, the machine actually does something for people.”

Peter sighs and rubs his eyes. Before he can say anything else, his stomach rumbles loudly, echoing through the large room. Mr. Stark lifts one eyebrow at him.

“See? So don’t tell me you aren’t hungry,” he pokes him in the stomach, then claps his hands together. “How about one of those nasty dessert pizzas? Would you eat that?”

“I’ve only had one vegetable today, Mr. Stark.”

“Eh, we’ll make milkshakes and I’ll put some spinach powder in it,” he waves him off and scratches at his knee. “Which one you want? That gross one with ice cream and cinnamon sugar and chocolate?”

“It’s the churro one,” Peter mumbles, then pushes himself up on his elbows. “With extra whipped cream.

“‘Atta boy,” Mr. Stark reaches out and ruffles his hair, then pushes himself off the edge of the bed. “Now go back to your sulk, and think of some devastating comebacks. I’ll have FRI call when your pile of sugar is here.”

“Thanks, Mr. Stark,” Peter waits until he’s halfway to the door. “Can we like...lock this in the vault? Forever.”

“Well, I already told your aunt--”

“Mr. Stark!”

“But...yes. After tonight, zipped until your wedding. FRI, delete the footage.”

“Sure thing, Boss.”

“Your very own Noodle Incident, kid.”

“My what?” Peter squints at him in confusion. “What the hell is a noodle incident?”

“Oh my god,” Mr. Stark’s face takes on a look of pure horror. “I can’t believe--no, I’m leaving. I can’t look at you right now.” But he winks as he shuts the door behind him.

****

“I can’t believe you ate that whole thing,” Mr. Stark makes a face as Peter licks chocolate off his thumb. He’s alone with Mr. Stark and Pepper in their private apartment, eating pizzas in their pajamas. Peter’s brief journey through the main common area when FRIDAY called him was relatively uneventful, save for when Mr. Barton laughed in his face and then handed him a twelve-pack of Black Cherry Vanilla Coke--apparently he’s somehow the only other Avenger to have full access delivery access to FRIDAY. Mr. Wilson tried to make a joke about how desperate Peter was to get it, but he quickly shut him down.

_“You know, Mr. Wilson, the closest place to the city to get it is Long Island. And some of us have more to do than lay around in a luxury compound in the country all day.”_

Then he turned on his heel, churro pizza and twelve-pack in hand, and walked straight to the elevator. Behind him, he heard Mr. Stark tell Mr. Wilson, “ _Watch it. I’ll take your goddamn head off,”_ before he followed, his classic New York and Pepper’s broccoli pizza balanced on top of each other.

“What, what’d he eat the whole thing of now?” May stops her chattering over the speaker.

“Oh, just a broccoli pizza, May,” Pepper winks at him from her place on the sofa across the sitting room. There’s a plate of pizza balanced on her belly. “Didn’t know he liked it so much.”

“Oh! Well, that probably counts as two vegetables, so eat some more, Petey.”

Peter winces, but swipes his finger through the chocolate sauce on his plate. “Sure, May.”

“So, a vending machine, huh?” May jumps right back in, giggling over the phone. “Tell me you got pictures, Tony.”

“Oh, I did,” Mr. Stark says through a mouthful of pizza. “But I owed him a favor so I had FRI delete them. And I promised the kid after tonight everything would stay in the vault until at least his wedding, May.”

“Which means I’m never gonna get married, Aunt May. Preventative measures,” Peter reaches for a piece of pizza from Mr. Stark’s box. He kicks at his hand but doesn’t actually stop him.

“Uh huh,” May deadpans, then chuckles again. “Ohhhh, Peter, remember when we were watching you and you shoved that raisin so far up your nose we had to go to the emergency room?” May laughs loudly over the speaker and Peter has never felt so betrayed, except for maybe by Mr. Barton’s vending machine. “And they had to vacuum it out?”

Mr. Stark doubles over in laughter on the couch next to him, mouth still full of pizza. Across the room, Pepper tries to look sympathetic but has to cover her mouth to hide her smile. Peter wants to curl up in a ball and die.

“MAAAYYYY!”

“How old were you, kid? Thirteen?”

“Tony,” Pepper scolds, her eyes twinkling. “Peter, when I was four, I stuck a pencil eraser up my nose and didn’t tell my mother for two days.”

“Peter, Ben hit himself in the head with a hammer when we were on our honeymoon. Spent two days in a French hospital.”

“Why’d Uncle Ben have a hammer on your honeymoon?”

“Beats me.”

“And when I was thirty-seven--”

“No, Tony!” Pepper practically jumps off the couch. “Save it. A story you can tell him right before his wedding, as a warning.”

“No, tell me.”

“Let’s just say it involved mistaken super glue, a down pillow, and a visit to a Monte Carlo hospital.”

“Oh my god, Tony. Please do not ever tell my nephew that story. Put _that_ in the vault.”

“If I change my mind and let you talk about the vending machine, will you tell me?” Peter swallows the last of his piece of Mr. Stark’s pizza...he should have asked him to order a second one. 

“Hmmm...no,” Mr. Stark picks up another slice, then slides the box closer to Peter on the table. “And you’re lucky I can’t eat a whole pizza by myself.”

“You can,” Pepper sets her plate on the coffee table in front of her. “You just know it’s not good for you, and that you’ll be sleeping in a guest room if you do.”

“Eeeuw,” Peter wrinkles his nose, but reaches for another piece. “Guess it’s up to me to save you from yourself.”

“Yes, the hero of vending machines and old men,” May laughs over the line. “Oops, I have to run. Pete, don’t forget to finish your homework, and don’t stay up in the lab tonight.”

“Alright, May,” Peter looks at Mr. Stark and rolls his eyes, while Pepper shakes her head. Every single one of them knows they’ll be in the lab all night, and that Peter will pass out either at his workstation or on the floor next to a space heater. 

“Is pot roast okay for supper tomorrow?”

“Yeah,” Peter swallows hard while Mr. Stark snickers. May’s pot roast is always interesting.

“Ok, then I’ll see you tomorrow morning, baby. Thanks as always, Tony, Pepper.”

“Anytime, May. We’ll make sure he doesn’t stick his hand in anything else before tomorrow,” Pepper smiles over at Peter. The teasing doesn’t feel as bad coming from her. Pepper teases like May: with love.

The line clicks dead. Mr. Stark reaches out ruffles Peter’s hair. “I can’t believe it was a raisin. You couldn’t have at least used something good, like an M&M?”

“May didn’t let me have M&Ms. She said sugar made me antsy.”

“Yeah, she’s right,” Mr. Stark nods towards the chocolate smeared plate in front of Peter. “Just try to make it to a couch before you fall into a coma.”

“Peter, why don’t we stay up here?” Pepper smiles, a mischievous look Peter doesn’t see often crossing her face. “FRIDAY has all kinds of videos Jarvis took. I think the best ones are from when Tony was testing the first suit.”

“Second. And no, we have some updates to work on--”

“We can work on them next weekend, Mr. Stark? You know, it’ll really make me feel better,” Peter lays it on thick, leaning over to him and widening his eyes as much as he can. “To see that my hero also does embarrassing human things. Please?”

“Alright, put them away,” Mr. Stark groans. “I can’t believe you’d do this to me. Either of you.”

“Well, until you can tell him the story of what you did when you were thirty-seven, these will have to suffice. Think of it as a lesson in trial and error.”

“Uh huh,” Peter laughs as Mr. Stark stands up. “I’m not gonna sit here and take your abuse. But I am gonna take my pizza.”

“Ok, dear.”

“Ok, Mr. Stark.”

“And the rest of the Black Cherry Vanilla Coke that was purchased with my money.”

“No, wait! Mr. Stark!” Peter jumps off the couch to follow up, while Pepper laughs.

**Author's Note:**

> This is probably the last thing I'll get up before The Premiere on the the 25th (although some people get it the 23rd. GAH).
> 
> May we all survive. Don't forget to not drink anything for at least twelve hours before you have to sit through those sure-to-be-harrowing three hours.
> 
> Godspeed, everyone.


End file.
